


Got It Made Here

by theswearingkind



Series: Five Times The Blackhawks Didn't Date Hockey Players (And One Time They Did) [4]
Category: Bandom, Hockey RPF
Genre: Friendship, Gen, M/M, fall out boy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theswearingkind/pseuds/theswearingkind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now is no time to start listening to his better judgment, Patrick supposes, even if that better judgment is telling him that being stuck in a locker room with a couple dozen sweaty, half-naked professional athletes is going to do absolutely nothing good for his self-confidence levels and a whole lot of really shitty things for the profound dry spell he’s been going through recently, sex-wise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation for this pairing except that I have spent the better part of this hockey season lamenting the utter dearth of Johnny Oduya fic in the world, which seems doubly ridiculous considering that he is one of the Blackhawks who is actually legitimately gorgeous. That combined with the NHL's licensing of Fall Out Boy's "My Songs Know What You Did In the Dark" for their promos led directly to this story. You're welcome/sorry about that. The fact that it is, technically, a Patrick/Johnny story was pointed out to me much later, because I had somehow not realized that when writing it. **ETA:** So clearly I am a prophet, because now there's [this photo](http://theswearingkind.tumblr.com/post/61424518490/blasfemme-i-feel-that-this-picture-will) going around of FOB with the Stanley Cup. CAN THERE BE ANY OTHER EXPLANATION.
> 
> This is the only story in this series that has two parts, and that is because I ended up drowning in feelings about Fall Out Boy being a band again, and also in residual feelings from 2007 about just wanting Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump to be best friends forever. So chapter 2 of this section is basically just - that. It's more of an outtake/prequel than anything else. I mean, there's hockey in it? But no Oduya.
> 
> Title from Patrick Stump's "This City," which [this video](http://theswearingkind.tumblr.com/post/52552757892/svmadelyn-twoearsandaheart-theres-so-much) has playing in the Blackhawks' locker room after the end of the Detroit series. The song discussed in the fic is "Elekktrisk," by Anniela.

Patrick meets Jon because Pete declares Patrick’s lack of hockey knowledge a threat to the band’s future licensing endeavors and drags him to a January home game against the Blues.

Once Patrick figures out the rules enough to be able to follow along, the game ends up being pretty cool, but that doesn’t mean he’s entirely thrilled when some guy who works in the Blackhawks’ Front Office tracks them down after the game and offers them a deal: he’ll get them in the locker room to meet the players if they’ll call his kid and give him a couple of autographs to take home to her. Patrick would be fine making the call and signing the autograph and then letting Pete meet the team by himself, to be honest, but Pete looks like he’s about to piss himself in excitement, and his ex-jock heart is ill-equipped to handle that level of joy without his bestest buddy by his side.

Or so he says, the jerk. 

And whatever, it’s not like Patrick hasn’t been doing whatever Pete wanted since he was sixteen years old. Now is no time to start listening to his better judgment, he supposes, even if that better judgment is telling him that being stuck in a locker room with a couple dozen sweaty, half-naked professional athletes is going to do absolutely nothing good for his self-confidence levels and a whole lot of really shitty things for the profound dry spell he’s been going through recently, sex-wise. 

Once they get in there, Patrick tries to hang back while Pete does his best to act cool while simultaneously bro-hugging every guy within arm’s reach. Patrick is checking Twitter and trying not to seem like a standoffish, antisocial dick when the music that’s been pumping through the locker room speakers switches over to a new song, different than the ones that have been playing up to that point. It’s been fairly standard-issue jock jams until then, so he’s a little surprised when the music kicks in and it’s more dancey than he expected. It sounds kind of like the stuff he was listening to when he was coming up with ideas for _Soul Punk_ , and after a second, he realizes that he actually recognizes the beat from somewhere; it’s familiar, he knows that, but he can’t quite remember where exactly he heard it before. That in and of itself is weird. His musical memory is usually pretty flawless.

He’s actually got his ear tilted toward the nearest speaker when he notices one of the players, a big burly guy who Patrick thinks maybe got in a fight in the first period, watching him with amusement. He grins when he catches Patrick’s eye. 

“It’s different, right?” the guy says, pulling his jersey over his head and turning to hang it in his locker stall. “Blame the Swedes.” 

Patrick gets briefly distracted by the span of his shoulders before answering; he’d assumed the guy’s brawn was at least seventy-five percent shoulder pads, but it’s really more like twenty-five percent. The guy’s not really his type—like, at all—but those are some impressive shoulders. He shakes himself out of it while the guy’s back is turned. “Yeah, I—I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it before,” he says. “I like it, though. It’s a good choice.” 

The guy shrugs. “It’s not really my taste, but—yo, Oduya!” he yells out at a massed group of bodies across the locker room. “Someone else likes your weird-ass Eurovision shit!”

The mass of bodies shifts a bit, and then suddenly there’s—there’s a guy who is legitimately maybe the hottest fucking person Patrick has ever seen in real life zeroing in on him and smiling, and if he thought the other guy’s shoulders were impressive, they have nothing on this dude’s pecs and arms and abs and, fuck, his _everything_.

Time honest-to-God shorts out for a while, then. Patrick only snaps back into himself when the guy—Oduya, he thinks, the other guy called him Oduya—is tugging a t-shirt on and looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, what?” he asks, fighting against the blush he can feel rising up in his face. He’s twenty-eight years old, for fuck’s sake, but it’s been a _really_ long dry spell.

Behind him, he hears the burly guy stifle a laugh. Pete, who apparently wandered up at some point, doesn’t even try.

“I said you have good taste in music,” Oduya tells him, and the little trace of accent he carries makes Patrick want to press his mouth against Oduya’s jaw and feel the difference in the way he shapes the words. “None of these guys like what I like.”

And maybe Patrick is imagining it, but it feels like the words have added weight behind them. He hedges his bets, just in case; Patrick doesn’t want to make assumptions about the guy just because he’s a jock, but all the same, he’d rather not read the situation wrong. “Well, uh, obviously I don’t know what she’s saying, but I like the production on the chorus.”

Oduya’s expression turns a little sharp at that, and his voice drops suddenly, becomes something dirty without actually changing very much. “I could translate,” he says, “but basically what it boils down to is, she wants to fuck.”

No imagination needed there, at least, Patrick thinks. 

“We should get some dinner,” Oduya continues, his voice snapping back to normal. “Are you free? I know it’s kind of late, but we could talk music some more.”

And, well. No one ever accused Patrick of keeping quiet on _that_ particular topic of discussion.

“Sure,” he agrees, and is rewarded with a flash of pink tongue against blindingly white teeth.

Patrick is sure Oduya has many fascinating opinions about European electro-dance music, but in that moment, he really fucking hopes _dinner_ was a euphemism.

It is.

Patrick has never been gladder to be kind of a tiny guy than he is in the moment when they get back to his place and Oduya just grabs him and lifts him up, getting his hands under Patrick’s ass while Patrick wraps his legs around Oduya’s hips and pulls him in. Sometimes he has issues about guys using their height advantage too obviously when they’re having sex—he’s got Napoleon syndrome, whatever, he’s come to terms with it—but for some reason it doesn’t bother him with this guy. 

They do talk about music, eventually, but not until later. Much, much later. 

They end up talking about a lot of stuff, eventually; Oduya—Johnny, technically, but, “You can call me Jon,” he offers. “Honestly, it’s weird hearing anyone other than Tazer called Johnny”—turns out to be a smart, thoughtful guy, with a sense of humor that creeps up on Patrick and a way of saying things that cuts through all possible forms of bullshit without ever inching over into asshole status. 

It’s kind of a crazy spring for both of them, what with Patrick traveling around promoting the new record and Jon traveling around helping his team break an old one, but they keep in touch when they can. They text just about every day, Skype at least a couple of nights a week, and try to see each other whenever they’re both in Chicago. That isn’t as often as Patrick wishes it were. It seems like their schedules never quite line up, but when they do manage to see one another, it’s pretty consistently great. The sex in particular remains a level of amazing that Patrick finds it difficult to wrap his head around.

It’s serious before Patrick realizes it, and when he does, he’s kind of surprised to find that he’s not freaked out by it; he’s never had commitment issues, exactly, but if he’d known in advance how things with Jon were going to go, he probably would have thought twice about getting involved with him. Patrick’s not famous enough for most people to care about his personal life, thank God. He dated guys when Fall Out Boy was at its most famous and never had to put much effort into concealing it, but Jon is a professional athlete on a team having what is apparently a once-in-a-lifetime season, and the rules are different. He’s not one of the Blackhawks’ big stars, so the media don’t hound him like they do some of his teammates, but still, there are some lines Patrick knows Jon just can’t let himself cross.

It’s not fair, and it’s not always easy, but Patrick’s up for it anyway.

And then it’s time for playoffs, which are a thing Patrick has never once in his life cared about, but now he feels the tension like a nightly punch in the gut. Game One of the Detroit series falls in between two shows on the spring tour, so he gets to be at the Madhouse for the series opener, gets to see Jon score the game-winner, and afterwards gets to go back to Jon’s place and get fucked until his knees give out and he collapses face-down in the pillows. 

So that’s a decent night, all told.

The next one is even better.

They’re playing Chicago that night, and the Riviera is packed out, stacked to the rafters with writhing bodies just waiting for them to take the stage. The tour opener was incredible, the kind of night Patrick has dreamed about for most of his life, but the air in the room tonight is practically combustible. Jon’s said it, too, about the Madhouse: something about Chicago is just different, _better_ , than anywhere else.

Jon should probably be resting tonight, but instead he’s here, standing next to Patrick in the wings, waiting for the band to get their cues to take the stage. In the murky half-light of the side-stage, where there are no cameras, no media, and it doesn’t matter who can see them, Jon runs a thumb across the inside of Patrick’s wrist and smiles down at him, looking exhausted but keyed-up at the same time, and yeah, Patrick knows the feeling. 

And when the house finally goes dark and the screams raises to a fever pitch, Patrick leans in and kisses Jon, fast, because he wasn’t supposed to be here but here he is, and then he goes out to meet the crowd, and they light it up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically just Pete Wentz/Patrick Stump friendship fic, set in the same universe as chapter one of Got It Made Here (and the rest of 5 Times...). I have a lot of Fall Out Boy feelings, still and always.

The thing is, Patrick isn’t a sports guy—being five-foot-three and chubby most of your life will do that to you, he figures—and he’s definitely not the kind of guy who can name every player on a team’s roster, or in fact any player on a team’s roster. He did grow up in Chicago in the ‘90s, so he’s working with a certain baseline awareness of the Bulls; he’s got aunts who fight every Thanksgiving over the Cubs and the Sox, and the Bears are the punch line to a bunch of jokes he’s heard all his life, so he’s at least peripherally aware of them. But when the band’s manager lets them know that the NHL has approached them about licensing some cuts off the new record to play over commercial bridges and behind commentary, Patrick realizes he knows fuck-all about hockey. He’s never even watched a game.

“What the fuck, dude,” Pete says, faux-outraged, or maybe not-so-faux; sometimes it’s hard to tell with Pete. “You’ve never watched the ‘Hawks play?”

Patrick shrugs. The last time he lived in Chicago year-round, their games weren’t even on TV. 

“Pat. Pattycake. We are gonna fix that right the fuck now.” Pete pulls out his cell phone, starts texting. “I’m pretty sure the Madhouse is sold out all the time now, but this is an emergency.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be drafting a set list tonight?” Patrick asks rhetorically—they absolutely are supposed to be doing that; it’s actually why Pete is lounging on Patrick’s couch—but Pete ignores him.

“Look, man, if this deal goes through you’re probably gonna get asked about it sometime anyway,” Pete points out, not even bothering to look up from his phone. “You’d probably be better off if you could say you’ve watched a game. And you’re from Chicago, so we know where your loyalties better lie.”

It’s one of those moments that makes Patrick remember that his best friend might be kind of an asshole, sometimes, but he’s also a fucking successful businessman. “How do you know so much about this?” he asks. He knows Pete’s got his fingers in a bunch of pies, but Patrick’s never even heard Pete say the word _hockey_ before tonight.

Pete snorts, still not looking away from his phone, thumbs working furiously over the touchscreen. “It’s basically soccer on skates, Patty. I had an athletic scholarship, dude.”  


They end up with tickets to a home game against St. Louis—because Pete, as always, “knows a guy”—sitting in the first row behind the Blues’ net. “I just want you to know that I feel weird about rooting against a team named after some of the greatest music of all time,” Patrick says to Pete as they settle in. 

“Yeah, I’d keep that to yourself, Patrick,” Pete replies, grinning. Sure enough, the people sitting around them are giving Patrick dirty looks, and one big guy mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “asshole traitor,” but whatever—it’s not like Patrick is ever coming back. 

The guy who sings the anthem is kind of awesome, though, and the energy in the place is like the best shows they’ve ever played, electric and overwhelming. If he closes his eyes, the roar of the crowd is familiar, deafening, and he can practically see the kids singing along, arms outstretched and feet stomping to the rhythm of Andy’s drums tapping out the beat—

And Pete elbows him, hard, and Patrick’s eyes fly back open, vaguely annoyed, because Pete’s a fucking good lyricist but sometimes he has no sense of poetry. “If you go to sleep, Patrick, I swear to God—these tickets were like five hundred bucks, man, and I _will_ make you pay me back.”

“You can afford it,” Patrick says, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “We aren’t all making the _Best Ink_ big bucks.”

Pete lets out a single loud shout of laughter that shows all his teeth. “Pays the bills, dude. Got my day job back now, though,” he adds, grinning, and Patrick grins back because, yeah, they do.

The game starts fast and doesn’t let up, and Patrick is only able to follow about ten percent of it, even with Pete doing his best to explain what’s going on at any given moment. He keeps losing track of the puck, and it seems at first like the refs are blowing their whistles for no reason—a guy gets slammed into the boards so hard the glass shakes and nothing happens, but the puck slides over the far line and suddenly everything stops? Makes perfect sense—but after a while, Patrick’s able to pick up on some of the method in the madness, see the patterns behind the chaos. It’s music, really: put the building blocks in place, then improvise.

Nobody gives any indication of noticing them while play is going. Someone must have, though, because during halftime—“Fuck, dude, it’s called intermission, and also there’s two of them,” Pete corrects, somehow managing to sigh in disappointment and also laugh at Patrick at the same time—Patrick is checking his phone and half-watching little old couples on the KissCam when the massive screen over the ice flickers and suddenly it’s his _own_ face up there, startled but smiling at the labels under their names: _Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump, Fall Out Boy_. 

The crowd actually cheers for them. It’s a good sound. He’s ready to hear it again. 

Pete smiles at him, clearly just as thrilled, and Patrick has a moment where he thinks, with perfect clarity, _this guy is my best friend in the entire world_ , before Pete leans in and planting a giant smacking kiss on Patrick’s cheek. 

Patrick surprises himself by getting pretty invested in the rest of the game. The last period is tense, the Blues rallying in the final fifteen to make it a little bit of a nail-biter, and yeah, Patrick can see why people like this. The Blackhawks pull it out, though, and Patrick is genuinely excited when he stands to cheer.

He’s less excited when the guy from the Front Office offers to take them into the locker room; he probably would have passed, honestly, but Pete looks so into the idea that Patrick just sighs, long-suffering, and tries to tamp down his grin when Pete throws his arms around Patrick and starts actually bouncing in excitement. 

“Dude, Patty, we gotta meet Kaner,” Pete says—like Patrick even knows who that is—and keeps babbling as the Front Office guy leads them down a long maze of hallways that he swears will eventually become the home locker room. “We have to get a picture with him—my two favorite Patricks and me.” 

It really says something about the fairness of the world, Patrick thinks, when it turns out that the other Patrick is also pale, somewhat balding, and short—relatively speaking, anyway—but also has a six-pack, biceps the size of Patrick’s calves, and plays professional sports. 

Pete ditches him as soon as they take the picture, on a mission to talk to every guy in the room, it seems, and Patrick parks himself in a corner to wait by a set of speakers pumping “Run This Town” into the room.

And then the music changes, and in a twist of irony he won’t recognize until much, much later, that’s when Patrick meets Johnny.


End file.
